


Love and Haunting

by Sylvia_Fig



Series: Love and Haunting [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:04:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvia_Fig/pseuds/Sylvia_Fig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after he jumped to his death, Sherlock's ghost lingers. But he feels himself fading. He has to touch John, just once, before he goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Haunting

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. For best results, listen to "Svefn-G-Englar" (Sleepin-g-angel) by Sigur Ros as you read. A translation of lyrics into English is at the end of the fic.

If I could sleep, I would dream about him. About how I never touched him like I ached to.

But in death, the barrier between us is thinner. I can stand close enough to hear him breathing. To see the yellow sunburst in the center of his irises; the lines around his mouth that he got from frowning at me. I don't have to hide my longing. A small mercy of my phantasmal existence.

At first, I had a body. Transparent and invisible to anyone with a pulse, but it had my bare feet and fingers. Now I have no body and I know it's because I am fading. I have to touch him, just once, before I go.

I watch him sit in the corner of the shower as steam fills the bathroom we once shared. He doesn’t cry so much anymore. He just fixes his eyes on the tile and his face goes blank. What is he thinking? I wish I could ask.

He stands, turns the shower off. Pulls the curtain back. Water drips from his hair into his eyes. My John. He is beautiful.

He rubs a towel over his hair, leaving it ruffled, and dresses himself in a striped sweater and three-year-old jeans. I follow him to a bar two miles away. I have memorized this routine precisely. A different bar every night and a different woman who always looks the same: curly brown hair and blue eyes. I try not to think about why this is his type, because if I do, the pain of it consumes me.

Immediately I see the woman he will choose. She’s sitting at the bar, alone. Short hair; pretty, but not too pretty. She sees him looking and they begin to flirt. I watch his face as he talks to her, never quite smiling, never quite frowning.

An hour passes. Two.

Soon, the question will come: My place, or yours? I can always tell when he starts getting restless. Everything needs to be ready before then.

I approach the woman. Get up close and test our boundaries. I’ve tried this a few times with varying levels of success, but tonight it cannot fail. I push harder and chill bumps spread up her arms. She gasps as I sink into her.

I open her eyes. My eyes. Just for tonight.

John is standing next to me, looking at me. Not quite smiling at me.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“Yes. My place, or yours?”

“Yours,” he says. He always says. He’s never brought a woman to 221B.

I feign like I’ve forgotten something. “Sorry, I only just remembered. My flatmate’s parents are in town. Can it be yours?”

Let’s go home together, John. One last time.

He looks irritated. This was not part of the plan. But it’s late, and he’s restless, and he wants to break his own rule. Just this once.

“Alright,” he says.

 _Touch me,_ I beg him. _See me._

We leave. The taxi ride is short and silent. I look at him, breathe the same air as him. He stares out the window and taps his fingers against his leg.

We go up the steps to 221B and he unlocks the door.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, walking into the kitchen.

I shake my head. Follow him in.

He takes a glass from the cabinet and I, tentatively, rest my hands on the center of his back. It feels solid and soft, just like I always thought it would. He stiffens a little. I run my hands over his shoulders. Squeeze them.

He begins to relax. Beneath the cologne he wears to make people think he’s younger, he smells like John. I bury my nose in the crook of his neck and inhale deeply. Yes. This is what I need. We belong inside each other.

I kiss him there. He moans and arches his neck and I kiss him again. Lick him. Taste the salty sweat on his skin.

He turns and takes me into his arms, tangles his fingers in the curls of my hair, presses his lips against mine. His lips. All of my imaginings were so wrong. They aren’t soft. They’re hard and textured and perfect. He breathes against my mouth and I feel it, I feel his warmth. I take it into my lungs. 

My fingers under his shirt, feeling every groove and muscle.

The woman whose body I’ve borrowed begins to wake. I push her down. Not yet. Just a little more time, please, please. Let me stay.

This is it, John. I’ll be gone after this. Do you feel it? Do you know?

The bedroom. His bedroom. His hands on my face, in my hair. Tracing the arches of my hipbones. I straddle him, looking at him beneath me. The bags under his eyes, because he can’t sleep anymore; the scruff on his jaw, because he can’t be bothered to shave.

We’re naked together. I’m not sure when that happened.

He’s hard. I’m ready.

But his eyes are closed.

“John,” I say. It’s a woman’s voice, but it’s me. Can’t he hear me?

“Hmm?” he says.

“Open your eyes.”

He does. They’re blue and beautiful and he’s looking at me, but he’s not _seeing_ me. 

I wrap my hand around his dick and press it into me. This is what I need. Him inside of me. This is where he belongs.

 _“John,”_ I repeat when he starts to close his eyes again. He blinks. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

He gasps, sits up quickly and grabs me by the shoulders. Still inside of me.

Hello, John. Do you know me now?

“Why did you say that?” he asks.

I tell him the truth. “Because I want you to see me.”

We move together and it’s everything. For once I can’t think and I revel in it. In him. He's sweaty and sweet and tastes like John. If I am permitted eternity, I hope I can carry this memory. How he felt inside of me. The flavor and texture of his lips.

It’s getting more difficult to stay. My vision is darkening, like it used to before sleep.

I wrap myself around him and he holds me. I gasp for breath and realize I am crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“John, John, John...”

“Hey. Hey, talk to me.”

“John, John, John...”

He pulls me down beside him. My head on the pillow next to his.

“My last magic trick is almost over,” I say.

His eyes widen. He presses his hands to either side of my face. All I can see is blue.

“Goodbye, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Svefn-G-Englar" (Sleepin-g-angel) by Sigur Ros
> 
> _I’m here again_
> 
> _Inside you_
> 
> _It’s so good staying here_
> 
> _But I can't stay long_
> 
> _I float in underwater hibernation_
> 
> _(in a hotel)_
> 
> _Connected to the electricity board_
> 
> _(and drinking)_
> 
> _But the wait makes me uneasy – I kick the fragility away_
> 
> _And shout – I have to go - help_
> 
> _I explode out and the peace is gone_
> 
> _Bathed in new light_
> 
> _I cry and I cry - disconnected_
> 
> _A ruined brain is put on breasts_
> 
> _And is fed by sleep_


End file.
